A Casualty Rerun
by letmefallasleep
Summary: While on his way home from Arizona, Bobby realizes he has a passenger. A passenger with dark secrets, and a darker past. A past that strikes a little to close to home for Bobby. Physical and non-graphic sexual abuse. Language, underage drinking, drug use
1. I'm Too Young To Worry

A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know I have to finish working on I Wanna Let Go Of The Pain... But... well... I wanted to do this one too! Lol. Enjoy.

Warnings: Eventual graphic physical abuse, non-graphic sexual abuse, language (it IS the Mercers after all), underage drinking, drugs, and other illegal activities.

* * *

Bobby was nineteen when the newest addition to his family arrived.

Oh, he was almost twenty-one by the time his mother announced her intentions to adopt Jack, but Bobby knew. From the second he laid eyes on the kid, he knew the skinny ass teenager was gonna stay. He knew the kid was gonna be the latest Mercer brother. Maybe not as bad-ass as the rest of the Mercer boys, but bad enough. Not as tough as the other Mercer boys, but tough enough. Not as mean as the other Mercer boys, but mean enough.

* * *

It was late; way too damn late, in Bobby's opinion.

He sighed as he signaled the waitress that he was ready for his check. It'd been a long night, and he had a longer drive ahead of him. Two and a half days, if he didn't hit traffic in the cities.

A long damn trip after an even longer damn day. He'd delivered the goods, no problems, but the guy taking the delivery had tried to short change him by five grand. Claimed Bobby had 'damaged' his merchandise. When that didn't work, he'd said that Bobby had been late.

Bobby smiled grimly at the thought, as he cracked his swollen and bruised knuckles. The guy was lucky Bobby'd been in a hurry to get home, and didn't have time to do the job right. Otherwise he'd be lyin' in the middle of the desert for the vultures , instead of just regretting the day his daddy first saw his ma. People only got on Bobby's bad side once.

"Can I get you anything else, or just the check?"

Bobby smiled up at the waitress. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with a perfect little face with big blue eyes, and long brunette hair. Any other day, Bobby would have been all over her like white on rice.

As it was, he contented himself with a smile, as he said, "Sorry, sweetheart. Gotta get rollin'. Lotta places to be."

The girl managed to hide her disappointment as she handed him the check. "Well, I'll see you around sometime, then?"

"Sure thing, babe," Bobby lied smoothly. If he had his choice, he wouldn't be in Arizona again if his life depended on it. "Thanks, hun."

He threw down a ten and a five for his four dollar meal, and winked at her as he walked out the door.

Before heading to his car, he stopped at the payphone, digging some change out of his pocket, and dialing a number he knew by heart.

"Hello?"

"Ma?"

Bobby could hear the relief in his mother's voice. "Oh, thank god, Bobby. I was getting worried. I know you said you just needed some time away, but I worry with you driving all over creation by yourself. You should have taken Jeremiah with you. Or even Angel."

Bobby smiled as he leaned against the frame of the phone booth. "Jeez, I'm fine, ma. You'd think I'd just gotten my license last month the way you go on. 'Sides, Jeremiah wouldn't wanna leave Camille that long. And Angel wouldda gotten left in the desert somewhere," He said jokingly.

"Oh, I know, Bobby. And I know it would have defeated the purpose of you getting away to take your brothers with you... I just worry. I'm your mother, dammit; I have a right to worry. You'll be as old as me, and I'll still worry about you."

Bobby shifted his feet uncomfortably. He hated that he had made Evelyn worry, but it had been necessary. Money was always tight in the Mercer house -with three teenage boys -and since Angel and Jerry were still in school, they only worked in the summer. Evelyn didn't make enough working for social services to pay for everything, so Bobby often took jobs like this. When he got home, he'd slowly dole out the money to his mother every Friday, so she wouldn't suspect that her oldest boy was smuggling guns half way around the country.

"Ma, I'm fine, ok? I'm leavin' Arizona right now. I'll be home Thursday night, Friday morning sometime. So go get some sleep, and I'll see you soon, ok?"

"Ok, Bobby. Be careful alright?"

"You know I will, ma."

"I love you."

"Yeah, I... uh, yeah, you too. Bye, ma."

He smacked himself in the head as he slammed the phone back into the cradle. God, he was such an idiot. Three simple little words. He did love his ma. Evelyn had been the best thing that every happened to him. But he couldn't bring himself to say those three stupid, moronic words. In seven years, he hadn't been able to tell her how he felt.

Cussing to himself as he lit a cigarette, he slide into his old car, slamming the door shut behind him.

Fuck.

* * *

He was just crossing the border into New Mexico when he heard it. A quiet sneeze in the back.

Instantly, he slammed on the breaks, veering off the highway, and was out of the car in less than five seconds. Pulling his gun from inside his jacket, he trained it on the back of the car, before yelling, "Get outta the fuckin' car! Now!"

Bobby felt his jaw drop, as a tall, lanky boy crawled out of the car, falling down in his hurry to get out. The kid stayed where he had fallen, huddled up on himself, as he stared at Bobby fearfully, blue eyes wide as plates.

Bobby glowered as he stuck his gun back in his jacket, and walked over to yank the kid off the ground.

"Jesus Christ, kid, what the hell are you doin'?" He demanded, pushing the boy against the car. "Dammit, I was gonna _shoot _you!"

"Please... Please, I just needed a ride to Detroit... And you had Michigan plates, so I thought..." The boy's deep voice trailed off, and Bobby realized he was crying and shaking.

Shit. Bobby scrubbed his hands through his hair, and took a step back. "Shit, kid, I didn't mean to scare ya. Fuck, ain't you ever heard of a bus?"

"I... I don't have any money, and since your plates..." Jesus, if the kid freaked anymore, he'd start hiccuping.

"Where're your parents? Fuck, you realize I could go to jail for kidnapping you?"

Oh _Christ_. That _really _got the boy shaking. "P-p-please, d-d-d-don't s-s-s-send me b-b-back! Th-th-they aren't l-l-l-lookin' f-f-for m-m-me! I p-p-promise!"

"Christ, kid, relax, or you're gonna piss yourself. Jesus, didya really think you were gonna hide on the floor of my backseat for two days?"

"I just need to get to Detroit," The boy pleaded.

Bobby shook his head. "You jump in at the diner? Is that where you're from?"

"No... I lived in... In California. I hitched there, and you were the first person I saw with Michigan plates."

"You fuckin' _hitched_? From _California_? Jesus, what are ya, all of twelve?"

"Fourteen."

"Fuck," Bobby swore, running his hands through his hair again. They couldn't just keep standing out there on the side of the highway. Bobby was suspicious enough in the middle of nowhere at three o'clock in the morning, much less with a teenage boy. "Get in the damn car. The front seat," He added sarcastically.

The kid scrambled around the car, and practically threw himself in the passenger side.

_Shit._


	2. Some Questions Run Too Deep

They'd been driving in silence for an hour before Bobby finally spoke.

"What's your name, kid?" He asked, glancing over at the blond boy.

"Jack."

"Jack what?"

"Just... just Jack."

"Well Jack no-name, mind tellin' me what you're doin' hitch hiking to Detroit?" Bobby asked, lighting up a cigarette. "You want one?" He offered, holding the pack towards him.

The boy -Jack- snapped the pack out of his hand, grabbed a cigarette, and practically threw the rest back at Bobby, glancing at him fearfully.

"I, uh... My sister lives in Detroit."

"Your sister. What's wrong with your parents?" The kid stared out the window, taking a few deep drags off his cigarette. Turning his gaze back towards the road, Bobby said, "Hey, I'm doin' you a _huge _fuckin' favor here, kid. You don't answer my questions, I'll throw your skinny ass outta the car, and leave ya here."

"My dad's dead," Jack finally answered, his voice dead-pan.

"And your ma?" Bobby prodded.

"She's a junkie. I doubt she even knows I'm gone."

From the tone in the kid's voice, Bobby knew the kid was keeping something back. Or lying about something. But then again, he didn't expect the kid to tell him his life story in five minutes.

"So your hitchin' to Detroit to find your sister. How old is she?"

"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-two," Bobby repeated skeptically. "And you're hopin' she'll take ya in?"

"She will!" Jack snapped, before glancing at Bobby nervously. "She will, if I can find her."

Bobby raised one eyebrow. "If you can find her. Damn, you really thought this one through, didn't ya? Let's hitch a ride from California to Detroit, in the middle of the night, get in the back of somebody's car, hope they don't see me, get to Detroit, and hope I can find my sister in one of the biggest cities in America. Damn, you ain't got much for brains, do ya?"

The kid shrugged, and returned to gazing out the window.

"I'm Bobby, by the way." Bobby sighed as he got no response. Dammit all to hell.

* * *

_Four hours later_

"Hey, kid! Wake up!"

Jack jerked awake instantly as Bobby shook him.

"I'm awake," The kid said, pulling away sharply.

Bobby held both hands up. "Hey, I ain't gonna hurt ya, kid. Stopped for breakfast. You hungry?"

Bobby knew the kid was probably starving. In the morning's light, he had taken a good hard look at his passenger, and realized the kid was ridiculously skinny, skinnier than Bobby had thought when he seen him last night.

"I ain't got any money," Jack said hesitantly.

Bobby shrugged. "I didn't ask if you had money. I asked if you were hungry." When Jack nodded slowly, Bobby smiled. "See how easy that is? You answer what somebody asks. Pretty straight forward little deal, ain't it? Come on, I'm starvin'."

He frowned as he got out, and watched Jack slowly pull himself out of the car. The kid was definitely sporting some bruises, maybe even a few bruised ribs; Bobby had had enough himself at that age to know the signs.

"You alright, kid?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Why don't you take the damn hoodie off, kid? It's almost ninety five degrees, you gotta be fuckin' boilin' in that thing," Bobby commented nonchalantly as they headed towards the diner.

"I'm fine."

"Ok, whatever you say, kid."

"My name is Jack. Not kid."

"Hey, I still call my eighteen year old brother 'kid'. Deal with it," Bobby said, sliding into a booth.

"Hi, what can I getcha?" The waitress asked pleasantly.

Bobby smiled his most winning smile at her. Sure, she was pushing past forty, and carrying a lot of extra pounds, but Bobby was -if nothing else- a lady's man.

"Yeah, I'll have a cup of coffee. What do you want, Jack?"

"Uh, I'll have coffee too. Please."

The woman glanced at Bobby. "He old enough to be drinkin' coffee?" She asked, frowning at him in a maternal way.

"Hey, the kid's mama lets him drink coffee, who am I to stop him?" He said defensively. " 'Sides, like we're worried about it stuntin' his growth. Kid's tall as a telephone poll already."

The waitress rolled her eyes, but gave the two boys a smile. "Alright, two coffees, comin' up. Special today is scrambled eggs, with french toast and two sausage links."

"Sounds great to me. You know what you want, Jack?"

The kid glanced at Bobby, before nodding. "Yeah, I'll have the same," He said quietly, staring at the table top. He glanced up at Bobby as the woman wandered back towards the kitchen. "Were you planning on pullin' over anytime soon?"

Bobby studied him carefully, before leaning back in the booth, and making his voice as casual as possible. "Not for a while. Maybe tomorrow mornin'. Depends on how I'm feelin'. Definitely not anytime too soon though. I wanna get home."

"Where's home?"

"Detroit. With my ma and two brothers."

"How old are they?"

"Jeremiah's eighteen, and Angel's fifteen. Thanks," Bobby said to the waitress as she dropped off the coffee. He raised one eyebrow as Jack chugged it down, and asked for a refill. "Damn."

Jack glanced at the ground. "What? I like coffee."

Bobby snorted, but didn't say anything. More like the kid hadn't slept in days. He had huge bags under his eyes, and even while he had slept in Bobby's car for a few hours, he'd tossed and turned and mumbled.

"So uh... What were you doin' in Arizona?" The kid finally asked, still looking at the table as he pushed his straw wrapper around.

Bobby shrugged. "Stuff."

"Stuff," Jack said blandly. "What kind of stuff?"

"The kind of stuff people shouldn't ask questions about. Especially if they want a ride to Detroit."

Bobby almost felt bad when the kid snapped his jaw together so fast, Bobby thought he heard teeth crack.

"Look, just some stuff for a friend. Not a big deal. I'll tell you what though: God himself couldn't make me go back. Damn, Arizona sucks. Fuckin' heat, and everybody says, 'oh well it's a dry heat'. Like it a makes a fuckin' difference when it's a hundred and ten degrees outside.


	3. Tragedy, Endless

A/N: Ok, so here's the next chapter. Thanks to people who reviewed, I really appreciate it. In the next chapter or two, we'll be getting into some very, very dark content, so be forewarned.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Bobby swaggered back out to the car, Jack in tow, staring fearfully at the ground.

Bobby rolled his eyes. That just wasn't gonna fly. The kid needed a freakin' backbone.

He stopped, and spun quickly. Jack hadn't realized he'd stopped, and ran in him, before falling on his ass.

"See? That's what happens when you stare at the ground. You walk into people," Bobby said with a grin, before turning again, and heading back to the car.

"So, kid: when was the last time you seen your sister?"

Jack shrugged as the two teenagers climbed into the car, but kept quiet.

"No, see, this is one of those questions that you have to answer, or you're gonna start walkin' again. And trust me, it's a long way to Detroit from here."

"I dunno. Six years, I guess."

"How do you know she's still in Detroit?" Bobby asked skeptically, pulling back onto the interstate.

The kid shrugged again, fingers twitching nervously. "I got a postcard from her two years ago. The return address was Detroit."

"Jesus, kid, have a damn cigarette before you get arthritis with all your twitchin'. There any other address, or just 'Detroit'?"

Jack shook his head as he pulled a cigarette from the pack resting on the middle seat. "No. Just a post office in Detroit. No P.O. box, no address. She didn't want my ma findin' out where she was," He said quietly.

Bobby shook his head. "Great, kid. So we're right back to you tryin' to find one person in a city of over seven hundred thousand."

* * *

It'd been silent in the car for six hours. Jack had fallen asleep about an hour ago -after smoking a whole damn pack, Bobby thought irritably- which made things a little less uncomfortable. But not much.

He sighed as he reached for a cigarette, and struggled to pull his Zippo lighter out of his jacket pocket. The damn kid had no idea what he was gettin' into. And at his age, there would be plenty of people more than willing to educate him on the reality of life, real quick. He'd end up being somebody's cock-bitch, or drug mule faster than he could blink.

Bobby snorted. If he was _lucky_, that's all the kid would end up. Chances were better he'd wind up raped, strangled, and left to rot in a ditch somewhere.

He shook his head, as he went to open his Zippo...

And as soon as the 'click' from the lighter was heard, Jack spazzed, jerking awake, and swinging at Bobby, catching him in the side of the head, and smashing the older boy's head off the window.

Before either one of them knew what was happening, they were off the road, and headed for a large tree. Bobby slammed on the breaks, and managed to slow the car down to fifty before colliding.

There was silence for a few moments, both teenagers stunned and dazed, before Bobby found his voice.

"Aw, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Bobby swore, holding a hand to his bleeding head, before turning his attention to Jack. "What the _fuck_, kid? You _tryin_' to fuckin' kill us? What the fuck is your problem, shithead?"

Jack groaned, but didn't reply as he leaned his head back against the headrest.

"You fuckin' hear me, punk? What the _fuck_ was that?" Bobby roared, reaching over and swatting the boy with the hand not covered in blood. "You fuckin' stupid?"

He stopped instantly at the terrified look in Jack's eyes, as the kid's hands scrambled at the seat-belt and door handle, blood dripping out of a huge gash in his forehead, and his nose.

"P-p-p-please, I-I-I'm s-s-s-sorry," Jack whimpered, cowering in the seat as he stopped trying to get out of the car. "I-i-i-it was an a-a-accident. Please, m-m-m-mister, I-I-I'm s-s-sorry."

Bobby bit his lip, hard, struggling to reign in his temper as he counted back from ten slowly like Evelyn had taught him. Finally, he took a deep breath, and looked over at Jack, who was still huddled in the seat, shaking like a leaf as he watched Bobby with large, fear filled eyes.

"Okay. It's not that bad. We're both alive, right? Right. Okay. Damn. Here, let me get a look at your head, kid." When Jack gave no signs of moving, Bobby sighed impatiently. "Look, Jack, I've got a hold of my temper by a fuckin' thread, you get me? So let's just do what I say for at least the next few minutes, understood?"

As the kid slowly turned his head towards him, Bobby reached out, and tilted his face up, ignoring the quivering, shaking mess the kid was turning into.

Well, it wasn't _that_ bad. Bobby'd gotten worse playin' hockey before. Granted, he'd had Evelyn stitch him up when it was that bad, but it wasn't gonna kill him anytime soon, even if Bobby didn't stitch it. Which, considering the state the kid was in, probably was a good idea. His nose on the other hand was definitely broken. No fixing that.

Turning his attention back to himself, he pulled down the visor, and glanced at the cut near his temple. That wasn't all that bad either. Not even enough to warrant stitches.

"Okay. I can figure this out. Damn it all to hell, kid."


	4. You Can't Win This Fight

A/N: Okay... Firstly let me point something out, something that will be coming up as an issue: I am not racist. I'm not a homophobe. I'm not sexist, or whatever. I believe all people are equal until they do something stupid that makes them not equal. Nor do I think that Bobby is really a racist. I think he says whatever he can to get under people's skin. Therefore, I'm not going to edit the conversations, and create an OC type Bobby, because of the risk of offending someone. My sister and I were the first generation on my father's side born here in America; I'm against racism of all types, whether it be race, color, sex, sexual orientation, etc. But again, I think Bobby says whatever he can for shock value, and needling affect, and sheer 'just-don't-give-a-rats-ass'. So... Yeah, you get the idea. There won't be racist names, or put downs, but Bobby would be the type to call a gay man a fag or a homo. He would call a middle-eastern man Habib or Achmed. He would call a mexican a taco. And since that's how the character is, that is what I will write. If that offends anyone, please leave now.

* * *

Bobby closed his eyes, mind racing as he struggled to think, his head pounding as blood dripped onto the car seat.

"Okay. Listen, we're gonna go, get a motel room. You're gonna stay there, and I'm gonna call someone to come get the car and get it fixed up. You're gonna stay in that fuckin' motel room, you hear me? You already smoked my cigarettes, and crashed my fuckin' car; you get me arrested for kidnapping and I'm really gonna be pissed," He said irritably, popping the door open.

On the other side of the car, Jack slowly did the same, holding one arm over his stomach as he hobbled along behind him. Bobby made a mental note to check the kid's ribs later. Right then, they had to get out of there before somebody seen Jack. He walked behind the car, and pried the trunk open, pulled out the duffel bag with the cash, and stuck his spare pistol in the back of his pants, before turning to look at Jack.

"Look, we passed a motel back up the road about a mile. You gonna be able to walk that far?"

"I'm fine," The kid answered miserably. Bobby glanced back, and saw tears still coming down Jack's face.

Bobby sighed as they started walking. "Okay, kid, I'm gonna give you a pep talk, but we gotta keep moving so bear with me, a'ight? We gotta get to the motel before somebody sees you.

"Look, yeah, I'm pissed about the car. But not at you. More like... pissed _with_ you, if that makes any sense. I dunno, I ain't the one good with words; that'd be my younger brother Jeremiah. I just... Shit, kid, you scared the fuck outta me. _Before_ we crashed into the tree. Mind tellin' me what the hell happened?" When he got no response, he continued on, "Kid... I don't know much about you. But I got an idea where you're comin' from. See, I'm a foster kid. Me and my two younger brothers. My ma was our social worker before she adopted us all. And uh... Wasn't none of us put in foster care 'cause our parents were just peachy, you know what I mean? So I uh... I just wanna help ya out, kid, but... holy damn, you scared the hell outta me."

"Do your brothers look like you?"

Of all the responses he could have gotten, that was the last one Bobby expected. He laughed loudly. "Oh yeah, kid, we're all fuckin' triplets. Identical. Nah, we had different parents."

"So they're your foster brothers," Jack said quietly, looking slightly less miserable as he glanced over at Bobby.

"Nah, man, they're my real brothers. We're tighter than most blood brothers. Granted, we get a lot of funny looks the first time we meet new people. They're black," He explained at Jack's puzzled look. "Angel's six foot, practically solid muscle. Kid wouldda been good at boxing or wrestling if he had any damn ambition. Jeremiah's six foot two, and skinny as a bean pole. Hell, he's almost as skinny as you."

They trudged on in silence for a while, before finally coming to a hole in the wall motel. Damn thing didn't even have a name, just a big ass sign that said 'Mo el'.

"Okay, here's the plan: You're gonna go around the side of the building, and wait there. You see anybody coming, you get outta sight, you understand? I'm gonna get a room, then I'll come get you. Just... stay outta sight, a'ight?"

The kid was good at taking orders, Bobby'd give him that much; no questions, no nothing, the kid just disappeared behind the back of the building.

Bobby shook his head as a dark thought occurred to him. It probably wasn't a good thing that the kid took orders so well.

Pissed off, Bobby stormed into the office. "Hey! Yo, asshole! I need a fuckin' room!" Bobby called out, banging on the small bell.

A small, middle-eastern man came out of the back. "There is no need to be rude. I could hear you come in."

"Yeah, right, whatever. Listen, Habib, I crashed my car 'bout a mile up the road. I'm gonna need a place to stay while they fix it. You got anything with two beds?"

The Arab shook his head. "No, I do not. It's hunting season, and this is one of the best hunting spots in Texas. Are you traveling with someone?"

"Look, it ain't none of your fuckin' business who I'm with or where I'm goin', Habib. It just so happens, I prefer two beds when I come to shitty ass outta the way motels like this, 'cause it improves my chances of gettin' one I can actually sleep on. Especially when they're run by people who generally sleep on the sand in a tent. Do you have anything available or not?"

"I have... One room. Queen size bed, kitchenette, with complimentary movie channels. Will that be acceptable?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just give me the damn room. How much you gonna gouge me for this?"

"It will be seventy three dollars a night."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yeah, of course it is. Whatever. I'm gonna need it for at least two or three days while they fix my car. You know a decent mechanic around here?"

"There is Ronald Potter up the road about three miles. He is a competent mechanic," The man said, filling out a receipt and handing it to Bobby with a frown.

"You got his number?"

"It is in the phone book in your room. Please enjoy your stay with us."

"Yeah, right. Gonna just have a freakin' ducky time with the backwater hicks."


	5. Never In Question, Lethal Injection

A/N: Damn, I'm good. Five updates on two stories in three days. I ROCK! *cough cough* Yes, now that I'm done stroking my own ego, lol... Anyways, moving on. This story does contain some graphic references to sexual abuse. Not graphic sexual abuse, graphic references to it, if that makes sense. So yee have been warned as my sister would say.

* * *

Bobby made it a point to slam the door as hard as he could behind him, before walking around back.

"Yo, Jack!" He hissed loudly. "Come on. Our rooms back here."

Bobby actually jumped as the kid appeared behind him, seemingly coming out of nowhere.

"Holy shit, kid; you're quieter than a fuckin' flea. Come on."

Jack followed silently behind him as Bobby lead the way to the back of the motel, entering into room 17.

Bobby grimaced as he threw his bag on the bed. Well, the room wasn't too bad. Looked clean at least, which was sayin' something for any motel.

"Hey, kid, you wa-" Bobby stopped as he realized Jack was still standing just outside the door, staring into the room wide-eyed.

"What the hell's wrong, kid?" Bobby asked in confusion.

"There's uh... There's only one bed," Jack whispered, still not entering the room.

Bobby felt himself growing angry. At himself, at the kid's parents, at the stupid Arab... at the world, really. But he forced himself to keep his voice casual as he shrugged, and said, "Yeah, it's all they had. I guess it's hunting season down here, and you know how these hicks are about hunting. We're lucky we got this room; I'm payin' half an arm and both my fuckin' legs for it. I'll take the floor, you can have the bed. Sound like a plan?"

Nodding slowly, Jack took a hesitant step into the room. "Yeah. Or, uh... I can sleep on the floor if you want. I don't mind."

Bobby shook his head as he closed the door behind him. "No way, kid. You've been holdin' onto your ribs since you crawled outta my back seat. 'Sides, you ain't sayin' I'm old, are ya?" He said, trying to make Jack laugh. He sighed when Jack only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I've uh... got to go to the bathroom," The kid mumbled, before darting into the bathroom. Bobby heard the click of the lock, and sighed again, before sitting down on the bed, and pulling out the phone book to look up the number for the mechanic.

* * *

Jack finally let out the breath he'd been holding since he'd first seen the motel room. Hell, maybe since the car crash.

He appreciated Bobby giving him a ride. And so far, the guy had been pretty cool. He'd bought Jack breakfast, let him smoke his cigarettes...

But now, Jack knew the second he walked out of the bathroom, it'd be time to pay all that back. Hell, he'd probably be fucking this guy for the next year, just to make up for the ride, and the year after that for destroying his car.

Honestly, he was surprised Bobby hadn't killed him right then. Not just because of the car crash; Bobby was nothing but tightly coiled pissed-off-ness. It permeated from every damn inch of him, keeping Jack on the edge, grinding his teeth in anticipation of when this guy was finally gonna explode.

But he hadn't. Even after the car. Everything about the guy -from his fuck-the-world swagger, to the gun just out of sight in his jacket- screamed violence and destruction... Yet he was quite possibly the nicest a person had ever been to Jack.

But Jack had had nice customers before. A lot of people were 'nice'. That didn't mean Jack didn't have to pay him back for the car. If Bobby didn't want him, then why hadn't he told Jack to sleep on the floor? Why give him the bed that _he_ was paying for if not for that?

He sighed as he glanced at himself in the mirror. The black eye was barely even noticeable at that point, since he had huge black bags underneath both eyes from lack of sleep.

When _had_ he last gotten a decent night's sleep? At the very least, not since he'd left California, but probably longer than that. Thinking back, he was pretty sure the last time he'd gotten more than four hours of sleep was... Jesus, almost two months ago, when he'd hide out in the boiler room at school for the night. Three weeks before he'd left home.

He fought the overwhelming urge to bust the mirror, as he reached into his pocket, and pulled out the small baggie, before laying a small amount of the coke on the rim of the bathtub, and chopping it up with his school ID into one long, thin line. Just enough to get him to that don't-give-a-fuck stage, and not a granule more. Just the dime had cost him a double bagger. Which wasn't something he wanted to repeat anytime too soon. Hell, he was pretty sure they'd torn something up there. It still hurt to shit, almost a week later.

Taking a deep breath, he used a rolled up piece of paper from his wallet to snort the whole line in one shot, before sitting back to let it take hold.

Everything was gonna be okay. Bobby hadn't killed him yet, which probably meant he'd take Jack all the way to Detroit. Then he'd find Sarah, and everything would be okay. Hell, it'd be better than okay; it'd be great.

Well, he admitted to himself, they probably would both still be working the corner. Sarah had admitted to Jack in the post card that she was still hooking, and it wasn't like Jack was gonna be able to get a real job.

Besides, he thought with a stupid grin as the drugs hit his system, fucking was what he did. Fucking and being fucked. It was what he was best at. Maybe the _only_ thing he was good at.

* * *

Bobby hung up the phone with the mechanic, and called Evelyn.

"Hello?"

"Hey, ma, it's me."

"Bobby? Oh, god, you had an accident, didn't you? You never would have called in the middle of the day unless you had an accident. Are you alright? Where are you?"

Bobby chuckled a little. "Ma, it's fine. I'm okay. It was just a slight fender bender, alright? I already called the mechanic, it's gonna take him two or three days to fix it."

"Oh, jeepers, Bobby. It's because you drove all night. Don't tell me you didn't, I know you too well. You drove all night, after probably driving all day yesterday. You fell asleep at the wheel, didn't you?"

"Ma, relax. I'm fine, I promise. I didn't fall asleep, I had a little uh... complication."

"Complication?" Evelyn asked suspiciously. "What do you mean, complication? What the hell are you doing out there, Bobby? I knew I should have sent Jeremiah with you."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "No, not that kinda complication... Um... A complication about uh... Well, the people you used to help before you retired, and hitchhiking."

Evelyn was quiet for a moment. "You picked up a teenaged hitchhiker? You need to be careful, Bobby, they could arrest you for kidnapping."

"Yeah, I know, I'm bein' careful, ma. Look, I can't really talk about it, alright? I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"Okay. You just be careful, Robert Isiah Mercer."

Bobby grimaced. ""Yeah, yeah. I wish you wouldn't say that," He grumbled.

"I wish you wouldn't go off and get yourself into these types of situations. I guess we'll both keep wishing, huh?"

"Yeah, I know. But really, I'm fine, ma. I promise."

"Okay. Well, I gotta go get dinner started for your brothers. We're doing lasagna tonight."

"Oooh, damn, ma, that's cold. You know that's my favorite," He whined.

"Well, if you weren't trapising all over the South West, you could have some. I love you. See you soon."

"Yeah, uh... you too, ma."

* * *

End notes: Ok, so a dime is a reference to a dime bag, a slang term for a certain drug measurement. I have absolutely no idea what it would actually transfer into. I just know it's not a little bit, but it's not a lot. It's closer to not a lot. Sorry, know that doesn't make much sense.

A double bagger... Well... Um... I will let you look this one up, or figure it out on your own. I'm sure it's pretty self-explanatory.


	6. I Know The Way You Been Living

A/N: So... here's the next chapter... Hope you all enjoy... and all of that jazz. :D OOHHH! I remember what I wanted to tell you guys...

How come TheLadyPendragon was the first person to type out the typo in the name of the story? Come on people! You have to catch all my mistakes! lol, j/k, j/k. :D

* * *

Bobby was barely off the phone with Evelyn when Jack strolled out of the bathroom.

"Hey, sit down in the chair so I can take a look at your head and your ribs," Bobby ordered, digging in his bag. He always carried the basics needed to doctor himself up on trips like these. Band-aids, gauze, medical tape, peroxide, neosporin, needle and thread... He frowned as he set the items on the table next to the chair. Probably should sterilize the needle or something.

Jack obeyed silently, lounging back in the chair.

Bobby frowned. Something was wrong with the kid. He hadn't been this relaxed since Bobby'd found him in the back of his car.

"You high?" He asked casually, running the needle under hot water, watching in the mirror for the kid's reaction.

Jack's eyes flickered to the right, a panicked look on his face, before his features relaxed again. "Yeah," He said with a shrug. "Is that a problem?"

Bobby shrugged back as he walked back to the table. "I don't care what you do. But you get me caught with that shit and I'll lay you out so quick you won't know which way is up, you get me?"

The kid shrugged again. "Yeah, sure."

Bobby nodded, and grabbed hold of Jack's head in both hands to get a look at his forehead. "Look, kid, this is gonna need stitches if you want it to heal right. You gonna be cool with that, or you gonna flip out and hit me again?"

"I'm cool."

"It's gonna hurt," Bobby warned, threading the needle, and setting it to the wound. "You sure you're ready?"

Jack smiled grimly. "Trust me: it ain't gonna hurt that much."

Bobby frowned, but set himself to sewing up the three inch gash on the kid's head. Through out the entire process, Jack did nothing but grimace, keeping eerily still, not even flinching as Bobby tied it off.

"There," Bobby said proudly. "Not too bad if I say so myself. And I do, so it's pretty damn good," He added with a cocky grin. "Now pull that shirt off so I can get a look at your ribs."

Jack stood, turning around as he did, and slowly peeled his hoodie off, followed by his tee shirt, and then his long-sleeve shirt.

Bobby frowned again. "Look, kid, if I want a fuckin' strip tease, I'll go to a strip bar. I asked you to take your fuckin' shirt off, not give me a show, a'ight?" He said irritably.

Jack shrugged and went to sit back down, when Bobby stopped him.

"Nuh uh. Stay standing. Your back don't look so great either," Bobby ordered, feeling himself grow angry at the sight of the kid's back.

Old whipping scars covered his back; there wasn't an unscathed area anywhere Bobby could see. And on top of those scars were fucking claw marks.

Bobby bit his tongue, hard, as he moved around to the front. It didn't look any better. The kid's whole chest was a mass of yellow and purple bruises, with scattered cigarette burns.

"Jesus, kid," Bobby swore, opening the rubbing alcohol. "Your parents do this?"

Jack hissed a little as Bobby dabbed the burning liquid on his back, cleaning out any infection. "Some of it."

"Sorry," Bobby threw out the apology like it had burned him, but didn't stop cleaning out the wounds.

"For what?" Jack asked, turning his head to glance at him.

"I don't know. Sorry it hurts. Sorry I swatted ya in the car."

Jack laughed. "I totaled your fuckin' car. I'm pretty sure I deserved it."

Bobby scoffed as he set the the peroxide down, and picked up the neosporin and band aids. "You 'deserve' the rest of these scars too?"

Jack shrugged again, albeit a little more uncomfortably this time, Bobby noticed. "Some of 'em."

Bobby reached up and flicked the kid hard in the ear.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"For bein' fuckin' stupid. That one you fuckin' deserved," He growled. "Turn around, let me get a look at your ribs."

Jack obeyed, and Bobby drew in a sharp breath. The kid's entire chest was one big yellow and purple bruise.

"Shit. How long ago this happen?" He asked, feeling for cracked ribs. He drew his hand back sharply when Jack jerked, yelping a bit. "Shit, sorry, Jack."

"No, it's... it's fine," Jack panted. "Um... I dunno. Three or four weeks. Then a guy who gave me a ride added to it a bit."

"Look, I know it hurts, but I gotta see if any of these are broken, a'ight?" At Jack's slight nod, Bobby resumed running his fingers over the kid's torso. Finally, he sat back with a grim look on his face. "Three cracked. I doubt they're broken, or if they were, they've healed by now, and you got damn lucky."

Jack sat down on the edge of the bed. "What do you mean?"

"Broken ribs are painful, but them bein' broke aren't what makes 'em dangerous. You move the wrong way, and you send one of 'em into your liver, or your kidneys. Maybe even a lung. I knew a kid once, his dad kicked him so hard, broke his rib, and drove it straight into his heart."

Jack shifted uncomfortably. "Can I uh... put my shirt back on?"

"Yeah. Just be careful you don't pull the band aids off. Imma be pissed if I have to reapply 'em."

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Bobby sighed as Jack threw his shirt back on, nearly ripping the damn thing in his hurry.

"Look, kid, I told you I'm sorry I smacked you in the car. It was really shitty of me. I shouldn't have done it. But I ain't gonna hurt ya, 'kay? I don't bite or nothin', I promise." At Jack's blank look, Bobby shook his head. "Lost cause I guess. Look, I'm tired. I'm gonna try and grab a couple hours of sleep. Toss me one of those pillows."

Jack obeyed, then timidly asked, "Uh... do you uh... need a blanket too?"

Bobby grinned as he laid down on the floor at the foot of the bed. "Kid, it's ninety some odd degrees outside. You seriously think I need a fuckin' blanket?"


	7. In Time, I'll Be Alright

A/N: Disturbing chapter, nothing graphic though.

* * *

Bobby hadn't been sleeping long when he felt it. A small, shaking hand trying to unzip his pants.

Instantly, he shot up, smacking heads with Jack, before tossing the kid across the room.

"What the fuck?" Bobby yelled, stumbling backwards, knocking over the table, and ending up against the air conditioner under the window.

Jack shakily got to his feet, confusion clear on his face. "I... I th-th-th-thought you... I mean you g-g-g-gave me... a ride, and... and..."

Bobby stared at the kid in disbelief. "Fuck, kid! I gave you a ride because I fuckin' wanted to, not so I could... Shit!"

"I... I can do better. Please," Jack begged, falling to his knees in front of Bobby, hands locked behind his neck in what looked like an all-to-familiar pose. "Just tell me... tell me what you... want me to do."

Bobby roared in anger, his fist instinctively connecting with Jack's head as the boy reached for his pants again. As Jack collided with the bed, Bobby had moved himself to the opposite side of the room.

Panting heavily, Bobby tried forcing himself to calm down. Tried counting backwards, tried picturing himself in his favorite place, tried to lock Evelyn's face in his mind, anything and everything the dozens of shrinks had taught him. None of it worked.

Through gritted teeth, he said, "Kid, I'm gonna tell you this once, and only once. _Don't. Fucking. Touch me_. You understand? I've killed men for that. Do it again, and I'll cut your fucking hands off."

Bobby hated himself for saying the words, but he couldn't stop them, even as he stared at Jack's already bruising cheek. Stared at the boy laying there crying pitifully against the bed.

"I... I'm sorry... I... I just wanted... You... You gave me a ride," Jack hiccuped. "You... You bought me breakfast, and... and let me... let me smoke your cigarettes."

Bobby ran his hands through his hair, feeling the rage inside him start to melt away slowly.

"Kid, listen to me, and listen good, okay? I helped you because I fuckin' wanted to. That simple. I bought you breakfast because I fuckin' wanted to. I let you smoke my cigarettes because I wanted to. That's all. I've been where you are, and I wish somebody had helped me, okay? I don't want nothin' from you. Fuck, I don't even swing that way, and even if I did, you'd still be five years too fuckin' young; I ain't a fuckin' baby raper. Not to mention it'd be like a kickin' a fuckin' puppy that's already been beat," He muttered the last part under his breath. Raising his voice so Jack could hear him again, he continued, "All I want from you is to get up on the fuckin' bed, and go to fuckin' sleep. That's it. Just get in bed, and fuckin' stay there. We both go to sleep. That fuckin' simple, okay?"

Jack nodded as he stood, still shaking and quietly hiccuping, crawling into the bed quick as lightening.

Bobby sighed. "And first thing tomorrow, I'm gonna teach you what to do if anybody ever swings at you like that again," He growled, punching his pillow before laying down again.

* * *

Bobby lay there, unable to sleep, waiting until he heard the kid's breathing quiet. Still angry, and jittery, he silently crept to the door, and stepped outside, lighting a cigarette as he closed the door.

It was chilly; he'd never understand that, no matter how many times his science teacher had tried explaining it to him. How could it be so hot during the day, and so fuckin' cold at night?

But he didn't mind the cold. Not tonight.

Shit. God, he was so fucking angry. He could still feel the tenseness in his muscles, like a goddamned cat ready to spring. He started walking, hoping to maybe burn some of the tension off.

He knew how lucky Jack was; he wasn't lyin' to the kid when he'd told him he'd killed before. He had. Hell, he wasn't even sure how he _hadn't_ killed him. It was instinctual.

He'd gone through twenty-seven psychiatrists, counselors and psychologists in the six years he'd been in foster care. Eleven more in the first three years he'd been with Evelyn. Coaches, teachers, foster parents, kids at school, or the other foster kids... Just about everyone he'd ever been around had a healthy fear of Bobby. He'd put two of his foster siblings, and two more at a group home in the hospital. Hell, he'd even put his fifth grade gym teacher in the hospital with three broken ribs, and a busted arm.

None of it intentionally. Those people who had gotten on Bobby's bad side intentionally didn't survive long enough to make it to the hospital. He'd only been caught once, the one that got him thrown to Evelyn. His savior.

He inhaled deeply as he closed his eyes. If not for his ma, he would have ended up in jail. Or dead.

As it was, he'd spent some time in juvie. All for minor shit, nothing that got him more than a few weeks here and there. Well... at least nothing they could prove.

But the point remained: the kid was fucking lucky. For the life of him, Bobby couldn't figure out why he hadn't pummeled the kid to a bloody mess. Not because he had _wanted_ to hurt him; but because anyone else, he wouldn't have had a say in it. It would have just... happened.

As it was, he felt enough like shit. Hell, it was almost as bad as when he'd came to in his bedroom, with Jeremiah telling him he'd broken Evelyn's wrist. He still didn't remember what she'd said to send him over the edge.

But he couldn't curl up, and hide in his room this time. He needed to get home, needed to get Jack to Evelyn. Somebody who could help him, instead of beating on him more. Instead of threatening to cut his fucking hands off.

Bobby stopped in front of a large oak tree. He stared at it for a few minutes, before chucking his cigarette behind him. Then he stared some more.

The tension wasn't going away. The walking wasn't helping.

He stared for a few more minutes.

_It's hurt or be hurt._

Almost without thinking, he lashed out, delivering a solid left hook to the center of the tree. He smiled a little at the pain lancing up his arm.

_Hurt or be hurt._

So he swung again. And again. Using the tree as a punching bag.

He wasn't sure how long he kept it up. At some point, he realized he'd broken his knuckles. So he punched some more.

_Hurt or be hurt._

He realized that he'd destroyed the _skin_, and he could _see_ the muscle around the broken knuckles.

So he stopped...

And went back inside, where he laid down, and fell asleep almost instantly.


	8. NOTICE

Hey guys, sorry I haven't updated in a while, but firstly, the internet's been down, so I haven't been able to post anything (I'm doing this at my aunt's house lol), and secondly, my grandparents are down for the month, so postings will be sporadic at best until June 3rd or 4th. Sorry to make you wait, but I only get to see them once a year so… yeah, not that sorry lol. I'm half way done with chapters for ALL the stories, so expect at least one chapter for: Two Worlds, One Family; Let The Darkness Cover Me; Love Is A Labor; I Don't Wanna Die; and A Casualty Rerun. Sorry again for the delay, I hope you all understand.


	9. Only Time Will Alter Your Vision

A/N: Ok, so let me firstly apologize: I just noticed that all of my updates thus far have been short, or at the very least on the shorter side. I apologize, I had to resort to using WordPad on my dad's computer because mine still won't connect to the internet. : ' ( So I don't have word count to tell me how long they are. But anyways, here's the next chapter, and yes, it is a filler, but I'm already half-way done with the next chapter, and there are a few important lead ins here.

Also, I just gotta say, I'm surprised nobody's picked up on where the story's going yet. Or at least the upcoming major plot line. Mwuahahahaha.

* * *

Bobby groaned at the pain lancing up his arm, as the light from the window shone directly in his eyes. Obnoxious stupid fucking sun.

He rolled onto his side, and opened one eye, glancing down at his hands.

Damn. Well... It was a good thing he wouldn't have to drive for a day or two, that was for sure.

"Hey, Jack! You awake up there?" He called quietly.

Instantly, Bobby seen the kid shoot straight up, blond hair sticking up all over.

"Damn, kid, you ever think about gettin' a haircut?" Bobby muttered, groaning as he stood, and made his way over to the small vanity outside the bathroom.

He looked like hell; large black bags under his eyes gave testament to the disturbed sleep he'd had, plagued with nightmares as it was. Then there was blood from his hands; apparently he'd wiped them against his face at some point. Streaks of red ran here and there across his forehead, with a few freckles of dried blood stuck to his hair.

He sighed as he walked back into the main room, and glanced over at Jack, who had crawled out from under the covers, fully dressed, and now sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

He could see the wary look in the kid's eyes, and felt a stab of pain in his gut. He knew that look all too well.

He knew that -in Jack's life- there had been two types of people. People who fucked him, and people who used him for a punching bag. Oh, there might have been the one friend at school (unlikely), or maybe the old man or woman who lived on his street (much more probable), but other than that, he'd been used for two things: sex, and violence.

Between Bobby's refusal of the kid's offer of sex, and the large, ugly bruise that covered most of the left side of his face, Bobby knew that he'd fallen firmly into the 'punching bag' people.

"Shit, Jack... Look, kid, I didn't mean to hurt ya," Bobby said, dropping in the chair across from the bed. "I know you've heard it before -hell, you've probably heard _that_ before- but I didn't mean it. It was just... just a reaction I get, alright? I don't like people touchin' me. You get what I'm sayin'?"

Jack shrugged, fiddling with the thread on the blanket. "Yeah, sure," He said woodenly, looking anywhere but at Bobby.

Bobby sighed, then stood. "Well, come on," He said, glancing down at the kid, before heading towards the door.

Jack's eyes grew wide. "What're we doin'?" He asked nervously, following Bobby out of the room, and to the field next to the building.

Bobby grinned as he stopped in the middle of the short grass, twisting his neck a little until it cracked, before answering, "I'm gonna teach you how to not get your ass kicked."

"Nah, that's okay," The kid answered, sweat appearing on his forehead as he took a few steps back. "I'm fine. Really." Bobby could tell he was debating on whether it was safer to run, and hope Bobby didn't catch him, or wait and just let Bobby beat on him and get it over with.

Bobby grinned again, forcing the care-free smile to his face. "Come on, you little pussy. You wanna get the hell beat outta you? Oh, I see," He said, the grin turning deviant. "You one of those S&M people. You _like_ to get the shit beat outta ya, huh? You like a little pain?"

Bobby took a quick step forward, swatting the kid upside the head. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to be felt. "That enough pain for ya, or you want a little more? You just let me know what gets you hard, buddy boy."

Jack took a step back, but Bobby could see the anger flash in the kid's big blue eyes. "I ain't into shit," He spat, eyes watching Bobby warily, as he carefully moved in response to Bobby. Bobby would casually step to the right, and Jack would follow his lead.

"Then come on, ya little shit head. If you don't like to get your fuckin' ass kicked, let me show you how to not get your fuckin' ass kicked!"

With that, Bobby danced forward to swat the kid again, harder this time, before backing up, smiling all the while.

"Fuckin' stop!" Jack swore, rubbing a hand over the spot Bobby'd just smacked him, as he retreated a step, glancing back at the motel.

"Oh, come on. Fuckin' make me, you little fuckin' bitch. Come on! Hit me back!"

"Why, so you have an excuse to pound on me?" Jack snorted. "Like hell."

"I ain't gonna hurt ya, kid; I just wanna show you how to keep someone from doin' this-" He swatted him again "-Or that-" He smacked him on the other side "-Or somethin' like that!" Bobby laughed as he pushed the kid, knocking him over. "Come on. Get up and hit me. I'm gonna keep hittin' you, ya might as well hit me back, and get somethin' outta it, right?"


	10. It's A Casualty Rerun

A/N: Ok, for everyone who doesn't read my Hyde fanfic, I apologize about lack of update, but I broke my arm, and it sucks typing one handed. Not to mention, do you have any idea how mindlessly insane you can go when a whole section of your body itches, but you physically _cannot_ itch it?

*ahem* anyways. So yes, this chapter is a little shorter than what I normally do, but it's leading up to (what I think will be) the last two chapters of this story. Yes, sadness, story is ending, but I might be doing a sequel. And hey, you still have two more LONG chapter coming. If everything goes to plan, and I can stave off attacks by the plot bunnies, or the sneaky whisperings of my muse, that is. :D

Being said, this is a disturbing chapter, with graphic mentions of rape. Not graphic rape, but graphic mention. You'll understand.

* * *

_"I ain't gonna hurt ya, kid; I just wanna show you how to keep someone from doin' this-" He swatted him again "-Or that-" He smacked him on the other side "-Or somethin' like that!" Bobby laughed as he pushed the kid, knocking him over. "Come on."_

"Fuckin' quit already!" Jack swore, smacking Bobby's hand away as the older boy tried swatting him again.

"Good! You got some reflexes, kid; I can use that! Can teach you somethin'; got some fuckin' potential!" Bobby said enthusiastically, swatting at him again. He groaned as his palm connected harder than he intended, sending the kid crashing into the ground again. "Oh come on! You had somethin' goin'! You gonna let me teach you, or you wanna get used as as a fuckin' punchin' bag your whole life?"

Jack wiped the blood from his lip, and glared at Bobby. "What's it matter, huh? I'm a fuckin' whore," He spat, angrily swiping the tears from his eyes. "I fuck, or get fucked. I'm a stupid, cock-sucking whore, and that's all I'll ever be."

The solid right hook caught him off guard, knocking him on his back. Before he could react -or even think to react- Bobby was on top of him, straddling him.

Jack started to struggle as Bobby began to unzip his own pants. Jack opened his mouth to scream -to fucking _beg_- but Bobby's hand clamped down on his mouth.

"Oh, none of that now," Bobby hissed, and more tears streamed down Jack's face at the change in the older boy's voice. "You said this was all you were good for. That you were a whore. Well, this is what whores do; this is what whores enjoy. This what you enjoy, Jackie?"

Jack shook his head violently, eyes wide, body shaking. But Bobby only smiled evilly.

"That's it, kid. I'm gonna take my hand off, and you're gonna tell me how much you like this. How much you love this, like a good little whore. You scream and... well, let's just say you don't wanna scream, Jackie."

Jack gulped in a deep breath, trying to keep from becoming hysterical, trying to stop hyperventilating. It took him a few seconds to get to the point where he could speak, and when he finally did, he sickened himself with how pitiful he sounded.

"No, please," He whispered. "Don't, please, Bobby, please. I'm sorry, Bobby, I didn't mean it, I'll do what you want, just please don't. Please," He begged, hating how pathetic he sounded.

He couldn't help himself as he started sobbing uncontrollably. He wasn't even aware of Bobby moving off of him; he just knew the force stopping him from moving was gone, allowing him to curl into a tight little ball.

He wasn't sure how long he cried. Wasn't sure ho long it was before he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He yelped, trying to pull away, but the hand tightened, gentle but firm.

"Jackie. Hey, look at me, kid."

The voice matched the hand, and Jack moved just enough to look into Bobby's eyes. What he saw shocked him to the core.

Sadness. Sympathy. And pain. Gut wrenching pain. Almost like...

"Yeah, kid. That's right. I wasn't always like this. Back in the day, I was a hell of a lot worse than you are now."

Jack's eyes widened in disbelief, and he opened his mouth to deny it _-it couldn't be possible_- but he couldn't speak.

Bobby knew what he was trying to say anyways.

"Yeah, kid. My dad started fuckin' me when I was three. My brother -my real, blood brother- told me he'd been molestin' me from the day I first came home from the hospital. Hell, until I was nine, I'd spread my legs whenever somebody looked at me sideways. Fuck, he used my ass so much, it still... It _still_ hurts to shit," Bobby finished roughly. "He's dead, by the way. My brother. My dad shot him, my mom, my little sister and me."

"What... what were their names?" Jack asked hoarsely, still wrapped in his little ball. Hell, if people could get to _Bobby_, what chance did he have?

"Billy and Hannah. Billy was thirteen. Hanni was five."

"Did he... did he ra-..." Jack cut off, unable to finish.

Bobby smiled sardonically. "Did he fuck them too? Billy, yeah. Not Hanni, though. Didn't like girls. Billy used to swear the only reason he married mom was to get boys of his own." He laughed bitterly, before Jack heard Bobby's zippo open, and smelled the cigarette smoke.

Jack still didn't move as he asked, "Did... did your mom and sister... I mean did he... Did he kill them too?"

"Yeah," Bobby said slowly. "He killed them too. Killed 'em first, actually, before me and Billy got home.

"He got my mom in the bedroom. She spent most of the day layin' in there sleepin', so it wasn't that hard for him. Lookin' back, I think she hid in there so she didn't have to face us kids.

"Hannah... That fall was gonna be her first year in school. She was so excited. Even had her first-day outfit all picked out and planned. Never got to fuckin' wear it," He said brokenly, the first time his voice turned emotional. "He shot her in the back of the head while she was sittin' at the table eatin' her cereal. Never knew what hit her. The docs said she died instantly."

"How'd you survive?" Jack asked quietly, wiping the drying tears off his face with the hand he wasn't laying on.

Bobby laughed bitterly. "The docs still ain't sure of that one, kid. I shouldda died with my family that day. Almost did, but somehow I managed to pull through."

* * *

End Note: Now the title should make more sense, yes?


	11. Place and Time Always On My Mind

A/N: hiya folks. so, here's the next chapter, again, apologize for any spelling/capitalization errors. openoffice is still my beta til my cast comes off, so these are taking me longer than i plan on. i'm still planning on last, final chapter after this one, and then maybe a sequel, but hey, who knows, plans can change

* * *

_"The docs still ain't sure of that one, kid. I should have died with my family that day. Almost did, but managed to pull through."_

"Billy and me walked in the back door, and we seen our dad sittin' there at the table, staring at the bloody mess where Hanni's face had been. And we froze.

"You ever seen somebody shot in the back of the head with a .357, kid? The back of the skull stays pretty much intact, except for the entrance wound. But it destroys the fact. Couldn't even tell it _was_ a face. Just leaves a huge, bloody mess.

"While we were staring at what had been our little sister's face, dad shot us. Got Billy once in the gut, and once through the side of his neck. First bullet missed my heart by an inch. I started moving, so the second shot got me in the arm.

"Then he ran out of bullets. So he went into the bedroom to get more.

"Billy was... he was choking on his own blood... he knew he wasn't gonna make it, but he was still tryin' to protect me the best he could. He knew dad wasn't gonna kill us quick and just get it over with it.

"So he managed to drag himself to the counter, and got a butcher knife from the drawer... I thought maybe he was gonna try and kill dad, or something...

"But he wasn't. Even then, he was too scared to even _try_. Or maybe he thought if he missed, dad would kill him, and then torture me. I don't know. But he crawled back to me, and told me... how sorry he was, but it was the only way he could save me... And he'd make it quick, and I'd never hurt again.

"But he uh... he couldn't get up the nerve to actually kill me. And while he was tryin', dad came back. Billy shoved the knife into my left hand, right before dad shot him again in the chest, and dragged him away from me. Then he started fucking him.

"I don't know how long it went on. I could hear Billy tryin' not cry. Tryin' not to scream. Until his cries finally stopped, and the only sound was our dad grunting. And I knew he was gone.

"Then he came over to me. I couldn't see good; I was slippin' in and out of consciousness. But I felt him start to undo my pants.

"And that's when I stabbed him. Got him right in the throat. But he managed one more shot before he died. Lodged a bullet in my left lung.

"I managed to crawl over, and yank the phone off the wall. Called 9-1-1. And here I am."

About halfway through Bobby's story, Jack had sat up, arms still wrapped around his knees. "Then your foster mom adopted you?" He asked, staring at the ground, unable to look at Bobby.

Bobby shook his head as he lit another cigarette. "Nah. I was in the hospital for four months before they put me in a foster home for '_troubled kids_'. Read: 'mental home'. As soon as I could, I ran. Lived on the streets for about six months. Then a pimp found me. Offered me food, clothes, a place to stay... All I had to do was be his little fuck toy. Did that for a year before I got arrested for stealing, and Social Services got me again.

"Bounced around from home to home for a while. Then my ma found me when I was twelve. Adopted me two years later."

"Why were you in the hospital that long?" Jack asked curiously, accepting Bobby's offer of a cigarette, and inhaling deeply.

Bobby choked on a laugh as he tried to exhale at the same time. Coughing, he finally managed, "Shit kid, three gun shot wounds ain't enough for ya? Jesus, you're a hard one to impress." He smiled a little, before growing serious again.

"I was in that long 'cause I was half-starved, and half my fuckin' bones had to be re-broken, 'cause my dad had broken 'em when I was younger, and they'd never healed right. I pretty much ended up in a body cast for four months. What a fuckin' joy that was too. Your parents have take you to get a cast after they busted ya up?" When Jack shook his head, Bobby grinned. "Mine didn't either. First experience in a cast, and they had my chest wrapped, my whole right arm, left wrist, both my legs from the ankle up... Oh yeah, it was a fuckin' joy."

Jack shook his head. "How can you... How can you laugh about it?"

"What, about being in a cast?"

"No, all of it... in general. How the hell do you keep going? How can you smile right now? How are you not insane?" Jack shook his head. "I've been free for a month and a half, and I still get nightmares. I still get... get random anxiety attacks. I still feel like my thoughts are racing a mile a minute, and my head's gonna explode. But you're sittin' there, tellin' me, and you're okay. I don't understand," He finished desperately.

Bobby smiled gently. "Who says I ain't insane? Jack, I live my life on the edge, every day. I do somethin' stupid that nearly gets me killed on a regular basis. I got no fear anymore. Not 'cause I '_conquered my fears_' or I think I'm invincible. I do it 'cause I don't give a shit. Haven't since the day Billy died. The only reason I'm still here is 'cause I love my ma, and I wouldn't do that to her. Hell, I pulled a gun on a mob boss back in Arizona, and beat the hell outta him. Then I walked out of the backroom, told his boys he was playin' with his new toys, got in my car, and drove away.

"And you know what, kid? You ain't never really free. Ever. Those memories? They ain't ever gonna just leave one day, and life's gonna be blue skies and sunny days. Hell, every once in a while, I'll get a flash back. Difference is, I take my frustration out on pimps and drug dealers around Detroit. Take out my anger at my dad on gang-bangers who get in my way.

"It ain't ever gonna get easier. You just gotta learn to handle it better."


	12. Another Day Inside This Dying Soul

A/N: Please, read the end notes. Don't skip over it. Special shout outs to:

Ahab Keat  
pollypocket911  
TheLadyPendragon  
lil joker  
treesaresnazzy  
tearsxsolitude  
KensieTheCat

I know I have many other faithful reviewers, and I'm sorry I can't list you all. As it is, my notes on this chapter are longer than the story itself. So thank you to everyone who has reviewed, or added this story.

* * *

"So why keep going if it doesn't get any easier? Why keep tryin' if I'm always gonna be a fucked up disaster?" Jack asked desperately, voice filled with despair. "Why bother trying?"

Bobby scoffed. "As opposed to what? Curling up and dying? You had to run away from home for that? Shit, if you were gonna just give up, you shouldda just stayed home and gave your parents the satisfaction of finishin' the fuckin' job," He said scornfully.

"Fuck you! You don't know shit about me, or my parents!" Jack said angrily, tears running down his face again. "You don't know what they fuckin' did to me! Don't sit there and tell me I shouldda fuckin' stayed!"

"Hey, does it look like I curled up and died, kid? Like I just gave up 'cause I'd had it rough? I make good money, love my family, and go outta my way to help little shits like you. In my spare time, I enjoy bare-knuckle boxing with pimps and drug dealers who target kids like you.

"See, the difference between us? I fuckin' fought to live. I shouldda died there in the kitchen with my brother and sister. But I fought it. I shouldda died in the hospital, but I didn't. I fuckin' fought like hell to get better. I could have keeled over and given up at any point during the three years before Ma adopted me. But I fought tooth and fuckin' nail to survive."

"Why? What was the point?" Jack spat. "So you could 'save the world'? That help you sleep at night, saving pathetic losers like me? Tryin' to save me to make you feel better about what happened to you?"

Bobby gave Jack a cold smile. "Hey, if you don't like my reasons for takin' you half way 'cross the fuckin' country, riskin' gettin' arrested for kidnappin', you can sit your ass here until somebody else comes along, then fuck your way to Detroit. Ain't no skin off my nose, kid. There's hundreds of kids out there like you. Except they _wanna _live. They _wanna _be saved. So if you wanna sit here and try to piss me off so much I kick you to the fuckin' curb, save us both some time, and just walk away. Then you can bitch and moan and whine about how nobody saved you, and you just _had _to jump off the bridge. You just _had _to OD on that coke in your bag. You just _had _to slit your wrists to fuckin' ribbons. You just _had _to step in front of that semi. You just _had _to kick the chair out from under the rope.

"You can sit here and whine about how horrible your life is. How tough it was. Or you can suck up whatever little bit of fuckin' pride you have left -which can't be all that much if you're sellin' your ass for drugs- and let me fuckin' help you.

"As far as why I fought? Three reasons. One: My brother died to give me a chance to live. It'd be kinda shitty of me to just die, wouldn't it? Two: I survived all that shit, while it was happenin', and I'm supposed to off myself now that it's over? Like hell.

"And thirdly: I'll be fuckin' damned if I'm gonna let that bastard win. I kill myself, my dad wins. He'll laugh at me for the rest of eternity while we're burnin' in hell. He tries to kill me, I survive, so I kill myself? Doesn't make a whole hell of a lotta sense, does it?

"Oh, and consider this, fucktard. You keep whinin' 'bout how horrible your life is. You think I don't know how fuckin' tough life can get? My dad used to pass me around like a party favor during his drug orgies. See these scars?" Bobby asked, pulling his sleeves up, then his pant legs. "These are from when he fuckin' tied Billy and me to the hot water pipe using fuckin' barb wire. You think I don't know what fuckin' pain is? These scars on my hand? From when my pimp nailed me to the fuckin' floor 'cause I was tryin' to crawl away while he fucked me with a baseball bat. So I know what fuckin' pain is, understand? You wanna whine to someone about how you can't go on 'cause 'life is tough', go find somebody else. 'Cause I've bee there. I survived it then, and I kept on surviving.

"I got the night terrors. Waking up screaming 'cause I thought I was back with my old man. I got the anxiety attacks, where someone would raise their voice, or move too quick. I got the PTSD shit that made me lash out without thinkin' or rememberin' what happened. I did the drugs to help me forget. I got so wasted I couldn't remember my own name, much less what happened to me. I've been there. I've done it. I've lived through it."

"And I didn't say that the nightmares don't come less often. Didn't say the anxiety attacks didn't hit me quite as often. I still get 'em, and they ain't any easier to deal with just because they don't happen as much. But you can move on. You can make a life for yourself. There's a whole fuckin' world out there, kid. And you know what? It's actually a pretty damn nice world. Now that you're out... you can do anything you wanna do.

"So. You gonna curl up and die, and miss out on all the shit you haven't done yet? Skip out before the good part? Or you gonna let me fuckin' help you?"

* * *

End notes: Yes, this is the end. The last chapter in this particular story. I'm going to start work on the sequel this weekend. I hope you enjoyed reading it. I hope it encouraged you to take a stand, and do something pro-active about child abuse. I hope it helped you understand the permanent physical, emotional and mental scars abuse can leave on a child.

And yes, I hope reading this made you sick. I hope it made you angry. The problem with child abuse is nobody wants to get involved if it's not them or their child. But this isn't just the problem of those it affects. It's everyone's problem. It's everyone's responsibility to help if they know, or suspect a child is being abused. Not just the teachers. Not just the aunts, the uncles, the grandparents, or the friends. It's the guy on the street who sees the little boy scrounging for food in his dumpster. It's the woman across the hall who hears the little girl screaming in pain. It's the kid in school, who sees the cuts and bruises on their classmates.

Five children a day will die from child abuse, or neglect. Three of those children will be under the age of four.

36% of women in jail were victims of abuse as children. Seventeen percent of men in prison report childhood abuse. 67% of people in drug or alcohol rehabilitation programs were abused as children.

And these are just the ones who tell about the abuse later on in life. How many adults don't tell what happened to them, much less how many children? These numbers are just the tip of a very large, ugly iceberg.

1.27 _million _children are physically or sexually abused or seriously neglected every year that we know about. The ones that we save, who tell about it later in life, or that we find out about a little to late. Some researchers say that the actual number is probably closer to _three million _children.

1.27 million children. To put that in perspective, think about this:

That's the same amount of people who live in the cities of Dallas, TX, and San Diego, CA. It's more than the population of San Jose, CA.

Please, if you are being abused, or if you suspect that a child is being abused -whether or not you are personally involved with the child or not- please, for the love of God, report it.

There are probably several abuse tip lines for your area. If you can't find one, you can call 1-800-4-ACHILD, which is the national tip line. If the abuse is life threatening, or ongoing, forget the tip line and just call 911.

I know my end note was longer than the story (or at least pretty damn close) and I apologize, but it needed to be said. So thank you for your patience, and your time.

You guys have been great. See you this weekend with the sequel!


	13. NEW STORY

The sequel is up and running, first chapter's posted already, second chapter is in the works. The new story is called '_**A Truth So Cold**_'. :D


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